The first chapter on Nigella Lawson was published earlier.
Chapter 2: Sweet Nigella
My agent called to tell he had a bodyguard job for me. I told him I was not interested because I hadn't done it for years and I was more in movie security now. He said that it was for one week only, it paid well, and it was for a British lady.
"Why me?"
"You did a bodyguard job for a British lady some years ago and she gave us a strong recommendation"
I remembered vividly, but that was another story. My agent then told me the lady was a cook.
"I am not a kindergarten-cop, neither a cook-babysitter"
"Wait Mike, she is a star TV-cook and quite a character."
He gave more details. She would be in New York for ten days in the Waldorf Astoria. We would occupy a suite with two bedrooms, separated by a meeting and reception room, an arrangement we used earlier. He also promised to send me some videos with her programs.
I must admit I was impressed. The lady wasn't a gray-haired granny in the 70s, but a sensational brunette in her late thirties. I've never seen a sexy cook but if there was one, she was the real deal. I noticed I started looking for her TV-shows. I even had daydreams about her. When I picked her up at JFK on a Friday, I had great expectations. Reality was even better than TV. Nigella was an attractive lady with long, chestnut brown locks and the same sexy, coy smile she showed on TV. But now straight directed at me! She had that attractive, pale-white, sensitive-to-the-sun type of skin, you often see in upper-class British women. It is a skin only seen in the breed of Lords and Ladies. How do they get it? Is it by the damp and humid weather at their rural estates and hunting lodges? By the chocolates and scones of their afternoon tea? Those ladies always look classy. Since their skin is silently crying out loud
come-on-and fuck-me
, they need only grant you a smile as a come-on.
Another chapter are their mammaries. You cannot call them breasts, and even less boobs or tits, because these proud elevations are something special. They are often neatly hidden, so nothing is visible and you can only guess. In these modern times some ladies permit a look in their staggering cleavage. Only a few gentlemen are so lucky to ever have full disclosure. Look, I saw several playmates and Hollywood stars. Most of them, like Demi Moore, have beautiful boobs. Their plastic surgeons surely did a terrific job and gave those stars a good run for their money. But what you see in the British upper class is on a different mammary level. When you ever come in the situation being allowed to handle a pair of these wonders of the world, any need for Viagra is superfluous. You are looking for a special word for these miracles like 'beautiful', 'great', 'spectacular', 'magnificent', 'sensational' but all these words were insufficient to describe their glory. In Great Britain you would call them
superb
.
From our first meeting Nigella proved to be quite a character. She had a very classy and yet natural demeanor, she was very intelligent and yet sexy without even trying. I desperately tried to keep a pure professional attitude and I honestly thought I did a pretty good job. Yet I sometimes had the feeling she plainly looked through me and could read into my thoughts, which were quite indecent verging on obscene. From the first day we met I had to beat my meat at night to give myself some relieve and be able to present myself the next day with a cool professional attitude.
It was not too difficult to care of her security during her trips to her publishers and her appointments with the talk show circuit. More difficult to handle was her wish to do some jogging in Central Park after sunset. I advised her against it, but she seemed to consider my worries about her safety as typical American exaggeration. I had no choice than do some jogging with her, but she seemed to enjoy breaking away from me now and then.
The inevitable happened even sooner than expected. On Tuesday evening Nigella again set in a sprint, almost teasingly breaking away from me. Because she ran through a gentle curve, I temporarily lost sight of her. When I accelerated to get her in sight, I saw a tall black guy threatening her with a knife and heard her screaming for help. Cursing, I ran as quickly as I could to her help. When I reached them the black guy had his hand raised and I was just in time to knock it out. The guy immediately went on the run. I hesitated for a moment but when I saw a cop approaching, I set in the pursuit. Unfortunately the guy was faster then me and I had to let him go. When I returned to her, I saw Nigella understandably was shaken. I stayed with her to the police station for all the paperwork. Only when we were in the hotel she calmed down and I put her to bed to recuperate.
It was in the midst of the night I heard some sounds at the connecting door. It was Nigella, in simple pajama's, her eyes dark and red.
"I can't sleep... can I come over here, to your room...?"
Of course she could. She crept in my bed and instinctively slided next to me, her head on my shoulder. She liked to sleep with just a pajama jacket and a tiny G-string. I only had a short view of her legs and before I turned out the light I saw the upper part of her pajama coat had fallen open... It would be so easy to give some comfort, to slide my hands in that opening and provide some body warmth. It was not the gentleman way to do. It is not done to save a lady from a rapist and then tumble with her into your bed. Of course I might only have a look, just a peek, as a small tip for a service rendered. I clinched my jaws; I was stupid to act like a gentleman. Stupid... real stupid! With her head resting on my shoulder I couldn't even beat myself off, just embrace her.
When I awoke she already left for her own bedroom. Nigella seemed OK and we did her scheduled program: a TV-show and an interview. At the end of the day we had some coffee together. To keep her thoughts occupied I discussed some American cuisines with her, like Californian, Tex-Mex and Cajun. She seemed interested in Cajun, so I talked with her about crawfish étouffé, jambalaya and blackened chicken. I also told her about a popular American dessert like chocolate-dipped strawberries. It was nice to see her being her old self again, the spark returned to her eyes, the blush returned to her cheeks, and of course to have that coy smile back. I took her to a small Cajun restaurant before we returned to our hotel. She wished me good night before retreating to her own bedroom. So, in that regard, the old situation was re-established.
About twenty minutes after I turned in, I heard some sounds at the connecting door again. This time Nigella was dressed to kill, no pajamas but transparent lingerie reaching only just over her G-string and it seemed her smile this time implied a promise.
"I need you." She simply said. I had some idea what she needed me for. Before I met her, I did my research and from her website I knew she lost her husband some time ago, and she had two daughters. Being a widow and TV-personality of upper class heritage, I could imagine the difficulties for her to fulfill certain needs, certainly living in the traditional British society and having two children around.
"Tell me what you need me for." I said hoarsely.
She approached me and put her arms around my neck.
"Just do me, love...!" It was not a request but an order.
